It's Only Make Believe

Sometimes marriage seems like a distant memory, like something that I question ever even existed.

I can distance myself from the memories for a time but they always creep back in.
Peter and I haven't been getting along lately. To me, this means that Peter isn't conquering the recovery path he claimed to be on.

But what do I know? He deceived me for 8 years.

I often tell myself this wasn't about me, that I was more than good enough for Peter but most of the time, I say it because I feel like that's what I'm supposed to say.

Do I believe it? Not really. Do I want to believe it? Yes.

Our marriage was make believe. It wasn't real. It wasn't based on trust and love and compassion. It was based on lies and anger and a shit-ton of messes.
Marriage didn't help me grow into a better person. I lost myself in marriage. I had fears that were almost unrecognizable even to myself.

He never told me it was me, that my body is the reason he left...but was it? Could it have been?
Could this recovery I keep trying to force myself into make me less lovable in the future?
I try not to believe this. I try to remember that recovery is for myself, not for anyone else. But I don't think I've ever chosen recovery for myself. It's always been for others; for friends, for family, for my children, for future relationships, for my therapist, etc. It's amazing how good I can be at pleasing others but when it comes to pleasing myself? Hmm...in my mind, the most pleasing thing for myself would be purging and exercise and skipping meals and watching as the person in the mirror gets smaller and smaller.

Peter and I got in a fight this week---not that that's abnormal. But as I sat on the phone with my mother and apologized that I was asking for her help with my children, she apologized for the position that I'm in---and there was a lump in my throat as I said, "It's ok. I'm the one who chose this mess."

Because I chose to marry Peter and have 2 children with him. I chose to sign divorce papers. I chose not to be submissive every second of every day to keep him happy.

I'm not saying that any of those choices were wrong---in fact, I think they were all good choices. But I still chose them. This is still my life. It's always going to be my life.

I feel much happier and more independent without Peter here but it still hurts. It still aches to be alone. It still sucks to rely on other people sometimes. If I could do this all alone, I would. I would do it in a heartbeat.

I often wish this wasn't my life, that Peter hadn't been an addict who left his family and flip-flops between wanting to see his kids more and complaining that he has them double the amount that he used to have them. I often wish things were different, that I was skinnier and gorgeous and had been one of those divorced women who was so amazing that she got snatched up quickly by another man who could see her worth.

But I'm not. This is my life. This has been my life for almost 2 years.

And unfortunately, it isn't going to change.

It's All A Bit Tragic

I don't get it.

I don't understand taking sides when you've only heard one side.

How is that even considered taking sides?

It's all a bit tragic, really. The way things ended and the trickle effects of things that continue to happen. I'm trying to breathe and let it go and move on but that isn't as easy as it might sound.

This was my life. Those were my friends.

And it took seconds for it all to be over but it seems to be taking forever to move on. It seems like it'll be years before the effects have stopped, before I feel like I'm not being ganged up on.

This tragedy---it is between two people but somehow it became much bigger. Somehow it became about all of us.

Somehow it turned into a group effort, a war between myself and a group---and I don't find that fair.
Believe what you want, it isn't right or fair to single out one person for a mistake that they've made. It just isn't.

If I jumped back to a little over a year ago, I wouldn't have even known any of these people and as sad as that makes me feel, maybe that would've been easier.
Maybe...but not really.

Not really. 

It's all a bit tragic but it isn't the end of the world---for any of us.

For any of us. 

I wish that mattered the most.
I wish the unimaginable heartache that we have all experienced together and helped each other through was worth more than a mistake---a mistake made without vengeance or deceitful intent.

What our husbands have done to those of us who have married addicts is messy. It is deceitful and dishonorable.
I wish this wasn't categorized in the same way.

It's all a bit tragic, the way things went down. It's all painful and I'm sad that I misread the type of people I was becoming close to. I'm sad that I trusted when I shouldn't have.

And isn't that the story of my life, of most of our lives? 

It's so hard to trust others. It's scary. Quite honestly, it's one of my biggest fears. But once in a while, I do it. And even less times than that, I do it wholeheartedly. I give every ounce I can to the people whom I trust with my heart.

And sometimes, I get hurt. I get burned and my heart aches and I stop believing that trusting anyone is safe.

It ruins me for a while---not forever---but for a while. It's painful and I replay everything I've done for those people that should've counteracted any of the mistakes or the messes.

But burns happen. We don't get to choose who trusts us, even if we choose to trust them.

I hate that it happens but there is really nothing we can do about it. We can't control others.

Tonight I'm sad that I received more news of some after-effect retaliation. I'm sad that very few people seem to understand or give me a chance to explain. I'm sad that my heart aches as I try to move on to a place where I stop caring so much about people who have hurt me.

I wish it was a switch I could just turn off. Oh how I wish there was a switch.

Please

I am the odd man out in a lot of places.
Places I once fit in. Places where I was once extremely loved.
I lost a lot of things, a lot of people, a lot of places. I almost lost myself. 

But today I couldn't shake the urge that I've been having to bring my blog back from being private.
This is scary for me. There are reasons I went private that were very valid and scary and real but this is my place.

This is my place. 

It used to be my safe place and I haven't figured out if that's true anymore but I hope it is. I hope that if you don't want to be here, that you leave. I hope that if you don't like what you read, you will walk away instead of letting me know.

I don't need to know if you like me or like my space or like my choices.

You don't have to like me. It might be painful to have you leave but at least I'll know. At least I'll learn and get stronger.

I never stopped writing while it seemed like I was gone. I don't think I'll ever stop writing as long as I live.

I hope that when enough time passes, the people in my life who don't want to be there will learn that they can walk away without hurting me with words.

I've endured so much in the past few years. I used to think it was too much but now I know I was strong enough to get through it.

I don't want my safe place to bring me anxiety. Please. Please let me be here and write my story. If you know me and you don't love me, please know that you can walk away without trying to ruin me.

Maybe it's because it just isn't in my nature but I've never understood people who have vendetta's against others. The closest I got to a personal vendetta was when Peter left. For a while, all I wanted to do was ruin his life. But that isn't me. 

In reality, I don't want to ruin anyone's life. I try so hard to be a good person and be honest and be there for the people that I love. It isn't always easy but it's something I've always worked hard to do---sometimes spending too much time on that.

I'm starting over and trying to fight for myself.

I have an eating disorder and quite frankly, it isn't going so well. Every day that I lose my battle, I lose a little more hope that I'll ever win again.

I've done it before but each time I give in, it seems like this battle is never going to leave me alone.

So if you don't like me or you don't understand me, please just leave me alone.

I need to be here. This is my space. 

A Story of Shame

I can remember exactly where I was sitting on the couch when it happened.

I was angry at my father for annoying me and he was laughing and continued to pester me. He grabbed my fist and pretended to make me hit myself in the face---except I moved my arm and punched myself square in the forehead.

I looked up at him with wide eyes and screamed, "You punched me in the face!"

He laughed. My siblings laughed. I ran downstairs to my room to cry.

I looked in the mirror of my vanity and blood was running down my face. My thumb nail had hit my forehead and taken a good chunk out of it.

My mind was racing.

Abuse. I had such a horrible relationship with my parents that my first thought was that my father had abused me. This was his fault. I was sure he had done it on purpose, maybe subconsciously.

Because he hated me. My father hated me. Everybody hated me. I had never been good enough for them and as I replayed their laughter in my head, tears stung my cheeks and I let them continue to fall, refusing to wipe away a single one of them.

The next day, it had started to scab over and everyone at school was asking me what happened to my face.
There were a variety of stories. I don't remember any of them. I just know that I didn't tell anyone the truth besides my best friend.

I felt violated. My family continued to joke about it and each time, the pain would sting just as bad. I felt like I was crazy. I felt like my pain wasn't valid or real.

They were all against me.

It was this dark, scary cloud I could never get past. I hated that story. I hated that everyone thought it was so funny. I hated that if I ever stood up for myself and tried to explain that I felt like my dad had hit me, they would all gang up on me and tell me how dramatic and dishonest I was.

And then it all got worse.

I was sent away to a wilderness rehabilitation camp at the age of 17 and while out on the trail, I told my therapist this story that had been eating at me for a year.

And she reported it to CPS.

When she told me she had to do this because of the situation involving my father "creating a wound on my body" or something like that, I had a panic attack. I was working toward building a relationship with my parents again and then she had to go and ruin it by reporting my father.

Would he lose his doctor's license? Would he lose my siblings? Would my whole family hate me forever because I ripped our family apart?

None of that happened. My 17 year old mind didn't quite comprehend CPS and how all of that works but my dad is still a practicing physician and my younger siblings still live at home.

For years after that CPS report, my family would still bring up that story every once in a while, each time ending in laughter.

Each time it happened, I would feel like the family screw-up all over again and feel anxious and angry and extremely stupid. I would leave the room or tell them it bothered me.

Finally, I mustered up the courage to talk to one of my sisters about it and since that day, I've never heard the story again.

I don't know if she ever talked to them or if they all just figured out that I hated the story but I'm glad that story is no longer a staple because it still hurts me. I think it always will.

I love my dad and he isn't a child abuser. He took a joke too far and I got hurt. His big mistake was not apologizing. His big mistake was laughing and shaming me when I tried to tell him that my feelings were hurt.

His big mistake wasn't abusing his daughter.

But for some reason, that story still haunts me. It reminds me of how messy things were when I was a child. It reminds me of why I can only remember a handful of things from my childhood. I don't know why it all still seems painful but it does. It isn't pleasant. It hurts.

I have to remind myself that I am a different person now. I have to remind myself that my dad is a different person now. Trusting him is easier. It sure isn't easy but it has gotten easier.

I have been given a lot from my dad. This week, I received a letter from him telling me how proud he is that I was accepted to the university I had applied to. He told me how proud he is of me as a mother and how he believes in me. He told me he wants the first semester to be "on him" and also included in the envelope was a check. I cried and felt so loved.

Growing up, I lived for moments like that. I yearned for them and rarely got them. It wasn't often that I felt loved by my family.

But now I do. Now I get to experience moments like these where life feels complete and wonderful and I feel secure.

None of us are perfect but this seems to be the hardest we have ever worked to have a healthy relationship and for that, I am grateful.

But I Miss Her

It's hard to explain and even to understand the feelings I've been having lately.

Mostly it is heartache. Mostly it is pain.

I saw her for the first time in six weeks on Friday. The last time I saw her was the day before this whole mess started.
She didn't see me. She was picking her kids up early from school and I was in the carpool lane waiting for my daughter to get out of school. I saw her walking to her car and I could hardly breathe. The anxiety I felt was almost unbearable. I was sweating and panicking.

I don't know what I was afraid of---that she'd start a scene in front of the school or that if she saw me, she would ignore me. Either one would've been painful. Either one would've hurt unimaginably.

A part of me wanted her to see me and smile, letting me know she was healing and moving on, but I knew that probably wouldn't have been the case. I knew it would've hurt to have her see me.

Living seven minutes away from someone you are trying to avoid is messy. I'm surprised that this was the first time I'd seen her in six weeks. At the same time, realizing it had been six weeks brought back so much of the pain.
It's been six weeks since I lost a lot of friendships and supporters, six weeks since I decided fighting my eating disorder wasn't worth it, six weeks since I was close to committing suicide.
In a lot of ways, it feels like it's been longer---years, even. But in a lot of ways, it seems like she and I were best friends just yesterday.

I wish it were easy to just forget her and move on. I wish the pain was gone and that I could fully believe that it's better having her out of my life. Deep down, I believe it. Deep down, I know that if she could give up on me so quickly and not come and talk to me before talking horribly behind my back to so many others, I am better off without her in my life. On the surface, that all makes sense to me. I shouldn't want her in my life if she doesn't want me in hers---but there is a part of me that is still struggling to accept that the things she has said to me these past six weeks really happened. I want to believe that somewhere within her soul, she knows who I am, but it's hard when she has told me a lot of hurtful things.

On top of that stuff or maybe just going along with it, I've been struggling to feel like I'm adequate these days. I feel like I'm accomplishing huge things---school, work, mom life---but I'm just waiting for it all to fall apart. I feel like I am trapped, like I'm listening to these voices inside my head that tell me I'll never amount to anything.

And Peter...yeah, Peter. I feel like he is getting a little too emotionally attached to me lately. I don't know, maybe I'm overreacting. I get really tired of the games. I get tired of feeling like he wants me and then he thinks I'm a horrible mother and then he wants me and then he thinks all I ever do is remind him he owes me money and then he wants me again. It. Is. Exhausting.

In fact, everything is exhausting right now. Everything. My brain seems to always be in hyperdrive. My anxiety is always looming. THIS IS NOT LIVING, PEOPLE! It's just not dying.

But tonight, it's all I've got. Tonight, I am trying to focus on the small things like the fact that I was accepted to the college I wanted to go to and that I've been keeping up on my housework without a cleaning lady (who I was blessed to have for the past 8 months).

I am capable. I am going to get through all of this. Just not tonight.